


Love You In The Dark

by Teinai



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Castiel, Angst, Developing Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Mild Smut, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Tension, Smut, Unrequited Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-05-10 09:16:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5579914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teinai/pseuds/Teinai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam doesn't even know where to begin. His relationship with Dean is not working. Dean is unresponsive, passive, and does not reciprocate Sam's need for emotional intimacy.</p><p>One night, Sam decides to do something about this issue. Whether it will ruin their relationship forever is another problem entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Secrets and Lies

It started slowly. The feeling that he was slipping away. He couldn't quite describe how, or when he began to notice it. The moments when they were together were fewer, their conversations more shallow, and he retained a hollow feeling of discontent in his gut.

It was eating away at him, becoming his greatest obsession. Why did Dean feel the need to cut him out? Did Dean not trust him with his innermost feelings? What could he have possibly done to Dean to cause this sudden shift in behaviour?

He knew these thoughts weren't healthy, and knew it was prudent to bury it inside him. Bury the pain, bury the questions, bury the lingering insecurity that without intervention this loneliness would be terminal.

It was not like he was alone - they had been with either Charlie or Castiel for most of the last month - but he felt alone. He felt like something inside himself was missing, and all he had was a singular goal to make himself whole again.

Part of his brain asked him 'Do you really care about whether you have upset Dean? Do you really regret any of the actions you have made, any of the discord you have wrought?' and his instinctual answer was a resounding 'No'. It was not that he felt guilty. Guilt was not an emotion he was comfortable with or experienced in. No, it was his insatiable thirst for understanding that was guiding him. He needed to know why, so he could make amends and regain what was lost. If he knew the reason was Dean's issue, then he could help Dean overcome it and they could dispel the discord of the last few weeks. That was easier done than said - he had helped Dean out of emotional and mental quandaries before. But if the issue lied with him and his conduct, he needed to know what it was so he could fix it.

Deep inside himself, he knew which of these two dichotomies the issue must be, but he allowed himself to feel secure in the knowledge that without hard evidence, he could not blame himself or act to repair the damage to their relationship.

Now, Sam sat in the passenger side of the Impala and pretended to watch the blackness of the night careening closer as Dean willed them onwards. In actuality, however, he was stealing glimpses at Dean, wondering desperately where it all went wrong.

He tried to swallow the words before they vomited from his mouth - hot, needy and emotional. He hated the feeling that he was being a burden, or that he was somehow the cause of this suffocating silence between them. He needed to know.

He needed to know. He needed to know. He needed to know. It was an all-consuming mantra that pushed him to the edge of insanity.

He was just about to open his mouth, and spill all his deeply held thoughts and secrets, when Dean looked sideways at him and spoke.

"You look like a wreck, Sammy. You okay?"

Sam internally screamed. How could he say all the things that he wanted to articulate in response to such a simple question? It was such a throwaway remark, 'you okay?'. And gradually, it formed a chain reaction of interlocking thoughts in Sam's brain.

Why must he always be the one to broach these issues? It was so unfair that he always had to be the 'annoying' or 'whiny' or 'overemotional' one. Why did people like Dean find it necessary to bury all their feelings deep within themselves, so much so that Sam had to pry each and every one of them out with a mental crowbar? It would be SO MUCH EASIER if Dean would just let him know how he was feeling every once in a while. Moreover, why wasn't Dean feeling awkward about the fact that they didn't speak anymore? Was their friendship of such minuscule importance that he didn't notice the difference in the way that they were engaging anymore? Clearly, if he was evidently so happy to shut him out, that was the only logical conclusion. Was it, perhaps, a relief to him that Sam wasn't privy to those thoughts? If so, then it did not make sense to seek that emotional intimacy anymore - for his sake, and for Dean's.

So, in that moment, he slapped on a small, fake smile and uttered a similar falsity, "Yeah, just tired."

He felt a part of his heart die, and another part of himself screaming out for its return. He would never know the answer to why Dean did not care for him anymore. He would never again feel that mental synergy that made him feel more alive and energised than anything he had ever known. He would never again be close with Dean Winchester.

He wanted to hide. He wanted to curl up in a ball. He wished, more than anything, that in that moment the lights of the car and the lights on the side of the highway would dissipate and he could be covered up in the darkness to grieve his shattered love. That he would be swallowed whole by the night and would breathe no more. No more burdens. No more thoughts. No more unrequited intimacy. Nothing.

Dean nodded, and added, "We'll be at the motel soon, buddy."

Sam smiled his hollow smile once again. He needed to physically stop the tears from coming. One rolled down his cheek and slipped into the inky black below the dashboard, but with a force of will, he retained his composure.

They sat in silence for ten agonising minutes. After finally stopping at the motel, Sam vaulted from the car with his duffel over his shoulder.

He started walking away as Dean drove the key into the door, only to be caught just before he turned the corner and disappeared from view.

"Sammy, where are you going?"

Sam turned around to see Dean looking apprehensive and slightly worried. In his own twisted way, Sam loved that he could still elicit a reaction from Dean for even the simplest of actions.

Again, he plastered his face with a false smile when he turned around and replied, "I just thought we might need supplies. I saw a liquor store a few blocks back. You want some Jack Daniels?"

For a moment, there were no sounds apart from the crickets chirping in the nearby bushes, and the far-off sounds of trucks in the distance. Dean stared at him, intently. Their eyes met and for a moment he felt Dean had peeled back the inner layers of his soul and could see his innermost thoughts. He felt naked, exposed. 

But then Dean spoke with a mirrored smile, and Sam's fears appeared to be allayed, "Definitely. Sounds like a plan. Meet you back here in 15?" 

"Yep. 15 it is."

With his final word, Sam about-faced and turned right, around the corner. Slumping against the wall, he let out the shuddering breath he never knew he was holding in. After taking a moment to breathe deeply and retain composure, he stood up and determined that the way forward was to his right, and back towards the highway. He could grab a lift and be on to the next town before Dean would have realised he was gone.

Walking slowly, grazing his fingers across the rough, stone surface of the wall next to him, he moved around another corner, only to be grabbed harshly, and spun around with his back to the wall.

Before he could utter a sound, his mouth was grabbed hungrily by another, and he was silenced. Lips, and teeth, and hot breath, and searing muscles gripping his biceps. The mysterious spectre hugging his body in a secretive and intimate embrace in the shadows.

He did not know who the assailant was other than that he was masculine. He did not want to know. This escape was all he never knew he wanted - the ability to shut off his chattering mind, to stop caring about Dean, and to give over all his pent up frustrations, his hopes and his dreams to another. As the burden of the night rolled off him, he cried freely, and strangely the kisses intensified to match his emotional outburst.

Soon, a rough, strong tongue was invading his mouth and capturing his own in a pleasurable dance. He let out a stifled moan as the unknown predator pinned his hands above his head and thrust himself against Sam's eager thigh, creating a pleasurable friction and a mounting climax.

This rhythm of thrusting, deep kisses, and groaning continued for several minutes, and Sam was in ecstasy. In the moments where they came up for air, Sam asked himself who this man might be, and how he came to be exhilarating him. However, inside himself he realised that he wanted this rogue to remain anonymous - to add a name, a face, or a personality to the equation created detail. He was done with detail. Done with eccentricity. Done with caring. All he wanted to experience was the simplicity of loneliness and the solitary autonomy that comes from letting go of the one you love. Letting go of Dean.

This realisation was too much for his broken, emotionally drained body to comprehend. He orgasmed violently into his jeans, and began moaning in a guttural way in the stranger's ear whilst the stranger appeared to experience the same reaction. This was when something truly unexpected happened. The stranger spoke, breath ragged, for the first time.

"I love you, Sammy."

Sam stared through the gloom into what he now recognised as Dean's face. His eyes showed that same intensity as minutes before. They were piercing, and he was helpless and weak to deflect his gaze in his post-orgasm state.

"Please don't leave me," he whispered. It was all he could utter before he buried his face in Dean's shoulder.

This was all too much. He was beyond tears. He was beyond pain. He was at his wit's end. How could it be that the one man that bottled up all his aggression, and anxiety, and loneliness, and pain could be the same person to simultaneously release it? It was incredulous.

"I promise you, I'm not going anywhere," Dean uttered in response.

He held on to the warm, strong muscles of Dean as he felt himself being picked up and carried, in bridal style no less, back to their room while he continued to hide his face and let all the emotions wash over him.

He was laid down on Dean's bed with the man protectively draping his arm over Sam as he whispered reassuring words to him through the blanketing darkness of their room. He knew that in the morning he would find this gesture patronising, and would find no comfort in Dean's embrace while their issues remained in play. However, for now, sleep came for him like an old, forgotten friend, and he sighed into the black. No more fears. No more pain. Nothing more to be said tonight. 

All he knew was their breathing, and Dean's comfort, and the knowledge that he wasn't alone.


	2. Wakeful Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean deals with the events of last night, and comes to a series of intimate discoveries.

DEAN POV

Dean stirred as the first rays of sunlight filtered through the blinds of the musty, cramped apartment.

Suddenly, his actions of the previous night flew into the forefront of his mind. The kisses, the touches, the sexuality of it all, but mostly the release of his pent up frustrations.

The last few months had been a blur of misdirected angst. It always started with a case, and with a case came responsibility. There were people to save, and demons or monsters or angels to kill, and next to no time to do it in. Dean always felt completely overwhelmed whilst simultaneously knowing he was entirely in his element. There was no time for emotion, or sentiment in this world of touch-and-go. No peace when another innocent life could be taken before its time due to his own ineptitude. 

The weight of this obligation bore down upon him, and it made his life an almost literal hell. Physically, he was a write-off. He hadn’t slept properly in years. His eating habits consisted of whatever could get him from A to B. His clothes were worn and ill fitting, and the fighting lifestyle was leaving him with a recurring back problem.

Emotionally, however, it was arguable that he was worse. He had a complete inability to come to terms with the people they had lost. Every silent moment was another thought, another memory bubbling to the surface to remind him that once again he wasn’t good enough. He couldn’t relax for this exact reason. His ever-present nightmares were filled with horrible visions - Lucifer burning him alive, Crowley stabbing him repeatedly until he died, Rowena hexing his brain to boil, and Sammy leaving him all alone.

It was this last one that scared him the most, because it seemed the likeliest. He knew, deep down, that he needed Sam around him to stay sane, but he also knew that Sam wanted to sit down and talk feelings, to wax lyrical about his secret fears and hopes and dreams. He was deeply and profoundly, scared of doing this. What if he said the wrong thing? He was awkward in situations that involved emotion - he didn’t always feel things as strongly as Sam, didn’t know how to convey his feelings, and most of all had no idea what to say when Sam had repeatedly sought his support in the past. He blundered, Sam got angry and acted irrationally, he felt angry at being yelled at for trying to help, and so the cycle of exclusion continued. Perhaps it was better to keep emotional distance between the two of them. 

Contrarily to this, he agreed that, yes, it was good to vent and empathise between themselves, and he relished that closeness and release that had existed between them. But he realised that if he told Sam how he felt, he might be unable to rebottle his feelings, and he needed to stuff his feelings inside himself to remain ruthless and efficient. This acted in concert with his restrictive view of himself. He was straight. He had always been straight. It made sense that he was straight. There was a comfort in that surety of himself, who he was, and his sexuality being generally accepted by society. It made cases easier. It made his life easier.

Obviously, in the face of the reality, namely that these were uncontrollable variables and Dean’s existence was all about control, he made an executive decision. He kept his mouth shut about anything emotional, engaged Sam in playful shallow banter at every chance he got, and flooded their itinerary with case after case. 

Their lives soon became a well-oiled machine of case research, case analysis, tracking opponents, combat, and drinking in crowded bars. 

And Dean thought he could deal with that. He really and truly believed that this was the best way to deal with the problem. It was just too messy otherwise. Except he knew, in his heart of hearts, that it wasn’t. He was simply ill equipped, and afraid of his lingering feelings.

This continued until that pivotal moment. He saw the look of trepidation in Sam’s eyes in the car. He felt the vibe of desperation in Sam’s face when he asked him where he was going that night. He knew, by what he could only describe as intuition, what they conveyed. There was only one explanation. Sam was running away; he had suffered enough and was leaving Dean.

It was in that moment that something had clicked inside of him. What was the point of maintaining this aloofness if he lost the one thing that he cherished most? What was the point of holding on to the shattered remnants of his ordered life - his rigid sexuality, hunting obsession, and emotional withdrawal - if at the end of it all he lost the glue that inadvertently, and perfectly, held him together? He rushed around the side of the hotel like a demon, sighted Sam making his way towards the highway, and hungrily stole him into the shadows. 

The kiss was fiery, passionate, healing. He couldn’t describe how thrilling it was to STOP PRETENDING TO HIMSELF that he hadn’t wanted this for what seemed like forever. This was better than sex. Sweeter than honey. More satisfying than a cold drink on a scorching summer’s day, or coming up for air after diving into the deepest blue. 

He had never felt more virile. He was rutting into Sam’s hip, pinning him against the wall, devouring his hungry mouth, and a feeling of calm was distilling over him. This felt right, this felt like the kind of release he had been searching for - not junk food, nor booze, nor fighting monsters, nor fucking nameless women had ever given him this sense of one-eyed clarity and serenity. Bliss, even.

He had hummed into one of the more sloppier kisses at the thought of that. He never knew he would ever, or could ever, describe himself feeling anything so… full of grace, redemption, and the promise of something more. 

At that moment, Sam stirred next to him in the present. His languid, agile body rippled with his tactile, chiseled muscles. Dean licked his lips absent-mindedly. 

The object of his affection opened up his perfect chocolate eyes with a stern look, and at once, the lazy, lust-filled feel of the room dissipated. 

“Um, what are you doing?” Sam asked in a surprised fashion.

And with that singular question, Sam had destroyed all hopes and dreams that Dean had for a new change in their relationship; there could be no respite in the harsh light of day. The blissful, weightless feeling had vanished.

Same old Sam. Same old Dean. Same old grievances. 

Dean sighed, and turned away from Sam to enter the bathroom. 

“Nothing,” he murmured, as he closed the door. And as he did so, it not only felt like he was closing his door on his brother, but on the chance of the brightest future his life had ever known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This is not the final chapter, let me assure you. ;)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to write this next chapter, everyone. I had to get a new computer because my old one got wrecked.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter, it deals with some of their issues, and raises new ones, but is filled with fluffy goodness for anyone who requires it. :)

Dean POV

 

Everything hurt. He should have expected this. But, in a way, he had expected this. He knew that Sam had a stern resentment towards the way he acted. And Dean knew it. He fucking knew it, man. He was hot-and-cold, and always had been. And it wasn’t because he didn’t always feel it. And it wasn’t because he didn’t care. It was because someone had to be the leader.

 

We had all seen the consequences of Sam taking the lead - the most prominent being when he single-handedly freed Lucifer from his cage. He loved Sam, he really did, but Dean would always have to be there to temper and control his actions. The boy always had a vision for how he wanted the world to be, and a talented, creative brain that Dean found to be simply arousing. There was no one he would rather have by his side for engaging in their version of sexless sex - hunting. There was no one else that could come up with an out-of-the-box solution like his Sammy.

 

He scoffed at his own mental dialogue as he got out of the shower, ‘his’. He had never owned Sam. Heck, he didn’t even know whether Sam had even enjoyed their foray into sibling incest - however earth-shattering.

 

He took a moment to look up at himself in the mirror after the lacklustre shower, and prepared to shave, tracing his stubble and pondering the best place to start making himself presentable as his preferred cover - FBI Agent.

 

However, in the reflection of the fogging glass, Dean saw something in the corner of his eye. The door had been left slightly ajar. He walked over and peeked into the outside room. Sam was sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, sobbing quietly, and whispering something to himself.

 

With the greatest effort, Dean leaned his ear as close to the door as possible, and heard a soft repetition of “stupid, stupid stupid”.

 

His eyes widened, and with the slightest of movements, Dean closed the door without a sound.

 

HE KNEW IT! Dean smirked to himself in the mirror, and set to work shaving himself. This was, in his mind, incontrovertible proof that Sam cared about him, and this whole morning had just been nothing but a simple case of miscommunication.

 

Ooooh boy, Sam did not know what he was in for now. The Dean Winchester treatment, a method of seduction that Dean had honed over many a one-night-stand. However, this time it was different. If a girl said “no”, then it was no big deal, but this was the big time. This time, he was playing for keeps. He was all-in. Daddy’s mortgaging the house to pay for his gambling addiction level shit.

 

Therefore, he had to play it carefully. Start slow. Play to his strengths. Play to _their_ strengths.

 

And what was the one thing that the Winchesters had always done together, just the two of them?

 

The door opened, and Sam popped his head in, tentatively. “Can we get breakfast? I’m starving.”

 

Dean smirked. He couldn’t help it. He wished he could have dropped his towel and said “Breakfast is served.”

 

He also couldn’t help noticing how Sam’s eyes absent-mindedly roamed his chest that was left uncovered by the towel tied loosely around his waist.

 

“I’ll be out in a minute, and we’ll grab some grub,” he said nonchalantly whilst returning to his task.

 

“Cool,” Sam said, lingering for just a moment too long to retain an air of being uninterested in what he saw.

 

The door closed, and Dean fist pumped. This was going to be epic.

 

*******************

 

Together, they walk into a local diner after a mildly contented ride. Sam had turned the radio on to the news. Dean didn’t mind, he just tuned out and stared on to the open highway, but he could tell it made Sam happy. He could literally feel Sam’s brain dissecting every story for a possible lead, or more generally sifting through the political discourse of the day to determine his own opinion. Hey, wasn’t his cup of tea (or rather, in his case, glass of bourbon), but whatever made his Sammy happy made him happy.

 

They slide into a black leather booth with a white, slightly sticky vinyl tabletop. Sam grimaces at the sensation as he sits down opposite Dean.

 

They each take a menu from the waitress in a little yellow dress. She’s a buxom African-American in her mid-20s with a fantastic smile, and a wild ‘fro.

 

“What y’all havin’?” she asks in a southern drawl.

 

“I think I’ll have the ribeye steak,” Dean states with a smirk directed at Sam.

 

To his shock, Sam orders a cheeseburger. “Woah, woah, woah, Sammy, what are you doing? Do you want to get a heart attack? I thought you were trying to avoid those” Dean says, incredulous.

 

“I can’t order the occasional cheeseburger, Dean?”

 

“Since when do you order cheeseburgers?”

 

Sam looks at him with a wry smile, obstinately cocking his head, as if to say ‘game on’.

 

“People can change,” is his carefully worded response.

 

“I mean, yeah,” Dean stares at Sam intently, their eyes locked, “I guess people _can_ change.”

 

“But you’ll always be my Sammy,” Dean winks and finishes by rubbing his foot against Sam’s inner thigh unbeknownst to the waitress.

 

Sam goes instantly red, and starts coughing on the table water he had begun drinking.

 

“Anything else?” she asks, in a way that makes it seem as if she is generally disinterested. Maybe she’s a homophobe. Dean doesn’t really care at this point, if he’s being honest with himself. Eye on the prize and all that.

 

“Two chocolate milkshakes, and that will be all,” Dean finishes. She begins to walk away, and as she does, their eyes lock once more.

 

Sam’s coughing begins to steady, but Dean can hear, just slightly, the undertone of sexual arousal in his breathing. He remembers oh so well those shallow, panting breaths from the night before.

 

Sam, in his new-found almost composure, speaks, “Dean, about this morning.”

 

“I forgive you,” Dean says, warmly, and reaches across the table to grab Sam’s wringing hands.

 

Sam snatches his hands away, “No, Dean. I really want to say this.”

 

Dean, looking slightly crestfallen, removes his hands. The mood in the diner changes, and tension fills the air. Dean sighs, this is not how he wanted this to go down. Today was supposed to be compressed in a warm, smoochy, loving, flirty, and fun experience. Now is not the time to be analysing what happened this morning, or last night for that matter.

 

But, then again, what did he expect from Sam? He needed this. Hell, maybe Dean needed this, but he doesn't know it.

 

He braced himself for the agony.

 

“I…” Sam started, a massive lump in his throat evidently, “Love you.”

 

Dean’s heart soared, and a genuine smile bloomed on his face, as fragile, tentative, and beautiful as the first daisy flowers in spring.

 

Sam continued, “And I need to tell you that I’ve loved you for a while. Probably since we were kids. I’m not exactly sure when my feelings began to become less-than-brotherly, but they’ve always been there. So many times have I wanted to stop you and shake you, and fuck you and kiss you and just… be with you without having to worry that I would just blurt it out and be rejected. I’m sorry it took your actions last night to unmask on our mutual attraction. I’m sorry that we’ve wasted all this time.”

 

Dean attempted to interrupt, but Sam grabbed his hands, and kissed them. “Please, just let me finish.”

 

Dean gulped, and continued to gaze into those chocolatey depths, mesmerised.

 

“I want you to know why I almost left yesterday.”

 

Dean interjected, “I know why you left.”

 

“No, you really don’t. It’s because I…” Sam started, but Dean finished, “Could feel the gap between us growing, and couldn’t take the solitude in knowing that all you ever wanted was right beside you, and you were never going to get it.”

 

Sam looked flabbergasted, his mouth was gaping (Dean noted that down for later *ba dum tssss*), “But how?”

 

“I could see it in your eyes, Sammy,” Dean said, with kind eyes, and warm hands stroking the other’s, “I _know_ you. I know all about you. I knew that if I didn’t make my feelings known, and you know how much I _hate_ doing that, I would lose you forever. And I just couldn’t do that to myself, and to you, my precious, and irreplaceable soulmate.”

 

Sam continued, “I don’t want to hate you for trying to protect me. And I need you to know that I don’t blame you for all the times I’ve done wrong. I want to work on us, on this, and learn to be… better for you. You’re precious to me, too Dean, and there is not anyone else in my life I’d be more proud to call my soulmate.”

 

Dean kissed Sam’s hand as a simple chaste gesture, but Sam had other plans. He launched himself across the table and grabbed Dean’s face with both his hands, kissing him full on the mouth, his hot wet tongue grazing the inside of Dean’s plump lips.

 

Alarmed, Dean froze up, but quickly recovered by wrapped his strong hands around Sam’s back and deepening the locking of their lips. They began to intertwine their tongues in the subtle and tender dance they both remembered from the night before.

 

This _was_ indeed bliss, and for minutes, they did not come up for air. Not for their food arriving, or the waitress huffing under her breath at them (See? Dean pegged her! Homophobe.). It was like making up for lost time, and in the same essence, an escapism that the two of them had desperately tried to seize in other ways - drink, sex, drugs, killing. But nothing, oh boy, nothing could come close to the serenity of knowing that Sam was understood and respected on a deeper level despite always trying to belittle himself, and Dean was loved and supported in his authority despite him failing to protect and guide Sam.

 

They eventually untangled and began to eat, and drink, and chat, and flirt, and watch the world go by.

 

It was as if they were just two people, a couple, like any other couple in the world at that moment. And Dean, and Sam, began to seek the brief, fleeting, but nonetheless nourishing respite that is new love. It’s challenges, in that moment, unknown to them.

 

Dean’s lustful urges, excessive drinking, internalised homophobia, inability to properly communicate, and control issues remained on the table. Sam’s determination to have things his way, pro-demon sympathies, inability to take orders, and neediness were still there.

 

They would need to be dealt with in time, otherwise their relationship, like a flower smothered by weeds, would wither and die. But in that moment, none of that mattered, none of that existed. All that remained was their breathing, and their loving, and the hopeful feeling that everything they had ever known was going to change for the better.


End file.
